


Cheek on Your Shoulder

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Needs A Hug, First Kiss, Hugs, M/M, Poetic, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas has been away for too long. When he returns, Dean instinctively steps forward to wrap his arms around him, but then realises he doesn't want to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheek on Your Shoulder

>   
> _If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was._  
>  — Unknown

  
Castiel had a habit of staring. Only Dean knew what it felt like to be stared at the way Cas did with him, it was kind of a singular experience. Prickles on his neck, tightness in his chest, the whole shebang.

Even though Cas was gone, Dean was sure he had never stopped watching over him, not completely - the difference was that Dean would feel a weightier presence when Cas was actually around. But the time _without_ his presence always went on too long - longer than ever, in recent weeks. That was the problem.

So when Dean felt a spontaneous tickle run down his neck, he knew Cas had come back.

One.

Breathless in a moment, Dean looked up from his spread papers. He saw Castiel just goddamn _standing_ there on the first step of the bunker’s library, the golden light on his shoulders casting shadows, tired shadows, the weight of the world suddenly heavier than itself.

Their eyes met, as magnetised things often did.

Two.

“Cas,” Dean said, breath halted on the name. He heard relief in his voice, but didn’t feel it.

To him, Cas was the kind of ghost who did the opposite of chill; he was flame under Dean’s skin, made him incandescent.

Three.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said.

Four.

No, it wasn’t relief Dean felt, nor joy. But it should’ve been both. That would’ve made more sense. It had been a month and a half since Dean last set his eyes on Cas’, but it felt like years. Too long. Always too long. Meeting again under these unimpeded circumstances should have been cause for celebration.

Yet, Dean saw Cas simply existing, _breathing_ , and he felt something. He wasn’t cognizant of the feeling, he didn’t think, _oh, boy, I feel something_. But his thoughts ended, his breath froze - and yet, while ignorant of every part of him that stopped, he was sure his blood ran the other way through his veins. Faster, faster. Heart taking drumfire.

Five.

Six.

Tied down again by Hell’s chains, the tension hurt. Knives in his feet, the night sky beyond the roof resting hard on his eyes. The bunker had become too small for home, where was the open road, his escape? He felt fear. Yeah, just a little. Where was this meeting going to lead him, if not to celebration?

Seven. Seven seconds had passed since Cas arrived, and Dean’s blood was still torrenting.

“ _Cas_ ,” he said again: his angel’s name, the letters shaped the same way he pronounced his prayers. He was praying now: _please be real_.

Cas had been here eight seconds now; nine. In this slow motion life, Dean’s heart was beating twice the speed of passing time.

Dean took a step forward, knocking the chair out from behind his knees. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

Marble squeaked under his boots as he strode towards his friend.

Ten.

Castiel’s eyes welcomed Dean, the slightest shadow of a smile on the corner of his lips. Eleven: Dean charged him down, couldn’t look at that smile any more, not now his chin was over Castiel’s shoulder. Arms met around his back, fingers clenching in his coat like the world would fray to nothing if he held any less tight. And it would, Dean knew it would. Right now, they were the world. No sight no sound no air no life; _Cas_.

Thirteen.

Dean breathed out, worry abating into particles, expired.

Breathed in. Castiel smelled like distance and absence, and he smelled like coming home.

Sixteen.

Castiel was firm with muscle, warm like any other man, but no other man would be as warm. His arms now rested over Dean’s back, hands flat on his shoulder bones.

Their embrace went on. Seventeen, eighteen.

Twenty.

Dean frowned deeply, cheek to Castiel’s shoulder, nose to his neck. Castiel was more present than he’d ever been before. He was real, he was real and he’d come back for Dean’s sake.

He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t broken, or invisible, or gone.

Twenty-eight.

Dean, conquered by what his arms had gained, somehow found himself whispering, silence formed into a funny truth he’d never expressed before: “I missed you.”

Castiel made a sound of satisfaction, pressing Dean fuller to his chest. “Me too.”

Dean smiled like he was about to cry.

Forty.

These things were meant to end. Even in a pounding, infinite heartbeat, no affection of this kind was supposed to last this long. Screw those rules. Dean didn’t want to let go.

Didn’t want to...?

Couldn’t.

Sixty.

Dean let out a runnel of warm breath against Castiel’s neck, forehead stuck to his skin, nose tipped on his shoulder, buried under the collar of his coat.

Couldn’t let go. Could never let go.

Eighty.

Castiel’s hand spread out through Dean’s hair, fingers all soothing, cupping his skull down to hold their embrace unmoving. He couldn’t let go either.

He was an angel and he couldn’t let go; how could Dean even hope to be stronger?

“Dean,” Castiel said, his voice landfall after a lifetime without ground. “Dean, are you okay?”

So, Cas thought it was strange. He knew enough about humans to know a hug wasn’t supposed to last this long. And yet, he’d made no move to pull away; the sense that Dean needed this, needed him, needed him _here_ must have been deeply affecting.

Dean laughed, caught up in a bodily tremble. He was hiding his face in Castiel’s throat, how could he be _okay_?

He shook his head.

Ninety.

Castiel sighed, his cheek pushed to Dean’s temple, one hand caressing his neck, one still holding his crown with his fingers set apart. “Look at me, Dean. Lift your head and look at me.”

Dean tried to lift his gaze, but even with Castiel’s help, he only fell deeper. The fear carried on with his throbbing heartbeat: if he looked, their gameplay would change. Everything would change, and he wasn’t ready.

Damn telling himself he _was_ ready.

Damn telling himself to step forward if Castiel ever came back to him. He wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready.

“Dean, look up.” Castiel’s voice moulded words like an earthquake made fissures in the planet’s surface: creating waterfalls from syllables, deep scoops of Earth hollowed away below the dark surface of sound. “Don’t be scared; look at me.”

One hundred.

Dean met his eyes. Blue of the sky, the concern of millenias passing by; the wrinkles of an aging, beautiful man, tired of the journey. Castiel was ready, even if Dean wasn’t. So Dean kissed him.

No sight no sound no air no life; _Cas_.

Castiel’s fingers touched Dean’s jawline, tongue on both their parted lips. Slow, shivering breath curled on his cheek. Mouths held together like their arms held together, like their overburdened souls in their chests pressed against each other’s ribs.

Dean wanted his spine against Castiel’s heart, arms around him forever.

It would happen. Sometime, maybe soon. Maybe later.

Dean would be counting the seconds until it did.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a poem but I chickened out. Hopefully it didn't end up too mushy...?


End file.
